


Lost Souls Forever

by rissalf, SilentSinger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Psychological Horror, really fucking dark shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-09-25 15:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9825767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: Ghosts aren’t real.





	1. Starts With Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Post S03E14: The Gentle Art of Making Enemies.  
> This fic was written in a fit of frenzy during the season 3 hiatus, and is our interpretation of what could have transpired following the shooting at the docks. (Before it all got Jossed to shit.) Regardless, due to the amount of blood, sweat and salty tears we poured into this thing, we sincerely hope you enjoy it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Nygma faces the consequences of his actions.

_“Ghosts aren’t real.”_

The words, dripping with venom, had been deeply familiar to Edward. An unwanted familiarity – the way one’s stomach might clench suddenly when hearing a piece of music that evokes memories of a particularly difficult time. “Ghosts aren’t real,” he’d spat at Oswald. _Ghosts aren’t real._

They’d been the very same words he’d attempted to comfort himself with as a boy – arms clutching his knees, eyes squeezed tight and brow damp with sweat as he endeavoured desperately to forget what he’d just seen in the mirror. The boy – the _other_ boy (because despite how he appeared he had to be someone else, _something_ else), had visited once more. He, no – it, simply had to be a separate entity; there was no other rational explanation. It couldn’t possibly have been Edward himself voicing those malevolent ideas about his friends, and his family. Particularly his family. But ghosts aren’t real.

Truth be told, he’d all but forgotten about these occurrences. Even after the murder of Officer Dougherty – when his inner demons had surfaced once more – he’d managed to keep these events from his childhood entrenched deep within his psyche; don’t ask, don’t tell. Onwards and upwards.

Tom Dougherty had been an act of justice, of righteous indignation. That brutish oaf had hurt the woman Ed loved and therefore he needed to hurt in kind. Kringle had been a crime of passion – unfortunate, but wholly necessary. Oswald had been a mixture of the two. His penance for murdering Isabella was due, yet within the act itself a small seed of desire and possibility – almost clouded completely by utmost contempt – had reared its head once more, minute and nagging, but ultimately there.

He’d tried to ignore it previously, and his relationship with Isabella had been a soothing poultice to shroud his base desires – a nice, _safe_ relationship; no blood, no murder, no underworld. She had been his chance for redemption, but the question had always loomed in the shadows, intangible and unreachable, dense like a thick fog – did he ever even want redemption?

He was slipping now. He’d crossed a line. Oswald Cobblepot – perhaps the only person to ever truly love Edward for who he is – was dead by Ed’s own hand, a sacrifice to demons who were never truly silent.

_“You need me, Edward Nygma. Just as I need you. You cannot have one without the other.”_

As much as he hated to admit it, Oswald’s desperate, pleading words had rung fiercely true with Edward. God, how he’d wanted to claim Oswald from their very first encounter at the GCPD; the way Oswald had brushed him off with such contempt – and the superiority Ed had felt by flummoxing this self-proclaimed kingpin with a painfully simple riddle had been such an intoxicating draught. Edward had wanted to bury himself deep within Oswald and hear the desperate moans escaping his throat from precisely that moment onwards. He’d wanted to topple this hot-headed young gangster, bring him to his knees and see him weak and quivering and begging Ed to hurt him just a little more.

But their relationship had evolved into so much more, following their experience in the woods. What had begun as a fleeting desire to assert his dominance (a notion which had always eluded a man who was shot down as frequently as Edward Nygma), had matured into a state that had been tremendously significant for both of them: affection. Pure and simple. It became almost symbiotic; both knew things about the other that they’d shared with no one else, and baptised by the blood of the unfortunate Mr. Leonard, their friendship had been cemented.

Tending to Gertrud’s grave had never been a chore. Edward was aware of the niceties involved with maintaining a friendship – even though, prior to this point he’d never needed to engage in such activities. Oswald had asked him for a favour, and Ed had been happy to oblige. Fresh lilies. Every five days. Check.

When Oswald had visited, fresh from his sojourn at Arkham Asylum, Jim Gordon’s castigation had been at the forefront of Edward’s mind. Therefore he had very little patience for Oswald’s new, toothless incarnation. He hadn’t been freaked out though, as he’d stated. The truth was he simply didn’t have the time to spare for what he really wanted to do to assist with Oswald’s cordial demeanour.

Later on that night, as he showered away the blood of Carl Pinkney – the seemingly neverending streams of crimson cascading down his body and turning pastel pink as they merged with the mandarin and bergamot-scented suds at his feet – his thoughts turned once more to delicate, post-Arkham Oswald, as he closed slick fingers around his cock. Perhaps that had been the Oswald he needed – unable to fight back, unwilling to say no. Perhaps it was time to take what he was due. Perhaps it was... perhaps... _fuuuuuck._

He’d pictured a vulnerable, unsuspecting Oswald, wholly submissive in body and mind. Expression dim, eyes questioning but voice silent, all but trembling at Edward’s touch. Sinking to his knees, bent over a piece of furniture, trussed up and used. Ed had imagined two dozen ways to wring pleasure from his closest friend, each more troubling – and in truth, more arousing – than the last.

The scenarios themselves hadn’t perturbed him. Fantasy is a healthy – even necessary – part of one’s sex life, and most of the time those dark urges never see the light of day, brushed aside like an intrusive flash of ultraviolence, gone before they’re ever allowed to take root.

But for Edward Nygma, those repressed urges would always reside in a shallow grave, barely covered over, half a heartbeat from bursting forth and razing everything in their path. And that was precisely what set his guilt aflame every time Oswald had visited him in Arkham. No sense of right or wrong had kept him from cornering Oswald like a feeble mouse and ruining him in every way imaginable that day; only his singular obsession with Jim Gordon had done that.

To Edward’s dismay, Oswald’s kindness persisted. His visits to Arkham Asylum – where he had suffered for months under the so-called care of Hugo Strange – were frequent and lengthy. He listened to Ed’s woes; he brought gifts. And in the grandest gesture of all – he’d facilitated Ed’s release and given him a purpose.

In short – Oswald Cobblepot needed Edward Nygma.

Somewhere during the course of nursing Oswald back to health and overseeing his mayoral campaign, Edward found his admiration for the gangster blooming into something more, something beyond the conventional give and take of mere friendship. Swatting that goon Gilzean wasn’t just about flaunting his intellectual superiority (though he couldn’t deny using the victory to get off a time or two); Edward had felt a sense of duty in doing so. Oswald – for lack of more eloquent phrasing – was _his,_ and Ed wasn’t about to let anyone bring him harm.

Throughout his youth, his educative years and beyond, Ed had become resigned to the fact that friendships were the sort of luxury that other people enjoyed; social outcasts need not apply. But Oswald turned out to be the best friend that Edward never had, and the truth was – he _did_ need Oswald Cobblepot, and always would.

****

It is often the simplest of things that can remind a person of something they’ve lost. A chill breeze on an otherwise pleasant spring day, for example, or a familiar tune in the middle of a crowded shop. Even the smallest and most innocuous of objects can tear open the gates to feelings entombed deep and best forgotten. Edward Nygma, though he endeavoured to plaster on a mask of stoicism in the days following his friend’s demise, wasn’t immune to such triggers either.

Reaching for his toothbrush he stills for a moment, fingers lightly brushing the bright yellow tin tucked snugly in the cupboard beside it. Frozen Primate. Oswald's particular favourite choice of hair product – a ridiculous name and an even more ridiculous price. The fragrance though, an aroma which is partly peppermint with an iota of citrus, and part some unknown warmth – somewhat akin to tobacco leaf, or black tea – was the reason Ed had made this particular purchase. The scent had always put Ed in mind of a brand of chewing gum he’d enjoyed as a boy, which was to his dismay, no longer available. But he’d long since attached it to so much more than simple nostalgia.

He’d first noticed it amidst the odour of blood and grime as he’d carried the wounded Penguin back to his car. Even later that day, as Oswald’s unsteady hands held a knife to his throat, the faint aroma was still prominent – despite the fact that Ed had gone to great lengths in bathing the unconscious man before he’d tended to his injuries. Coupled with the memories of Oswald’s warm embrace upon countless occasions since their first intimate moment beside the fireplace following Butch’s downfall, he drums his fingers against the top of the can before deciding that yes, he does wish to reminisce – just for a moment.

As he twists open the lid, it’s the stench that hits him first. Festering, putrid and rotten. Still waters, blood and bloat, death and decay.

The contents of the small tin begin to shimmer and move, and Ed’s eyes widen in horror as it becomes apparent what’s inside. Hydrophilidae. Water beetles of all shapes and sizes, crawling and skittering and scrambling free from their cramped confines in an unrelenting trail of glossy black carapaces, antennae and limbs.

With a strangled gasp Edward drops the container to the floor, but the tenacious insects continue to emerge, one after another, as though the tiny container possesses volume beyond all reasonable measure. They march towards him as if pulled by an invisible string, and Ed can only gape as the relentless legion begins to overtake him.

They do so with ease – the way snaking vines and piercing bramble might beset a shack long forsaken deep in the woods, winding their way over his bare feet and up his legs, the separate entities working as one, upward, ever upward, biting and prickling until at last they encircle his throat like a claw.

He squeezes his eyes shut; if he doesn’t look at them, they cannot be real. It’s a ludicrous postulation – he can still feel them after all, feel the undulating claw begin to contract, even as more of the insects clamber over his face in search of an orifice to burrow into.

He can hear them, too – a droning hum comparable to a dentist’s drill, and he can feel his voice growing hoarse with a protracted scream he cannot hear. The beetles buzz as they skitter across his flesh; they’re in his mouth, in his ears, in his nose – the tumultuous thrum growing steadily louder with each passing second. He feebly attempts to brush them away with little success, because for every beetle that hits the floor – limbs flailing wildly as they endeavour to right themselves – several more are birthed from the container, larger than their predecessors, and moving with increased momentum.

_They aren’t real. This isn’t happening. They cannot be real, they’re not-_

Someone is howling with laughter. His mirror-self – positively enraptured by the horrific display before him – is laughing with such fervour he could even be screaming. His face is contorted into an exuberant grin rather than an expression of terror, and there’s not a single bug in sight; in fact there’s nary a speck of dust marring his immaculate visage.

He has to get out of here.

****

Ghosts may not be real, but remorse most certainly is. As he drives, Edward contemplates visiting Oswald’s final resting place, simply to put his mind at ease. It’s a preposterous concept; while a simple “sorry”, or a “goodbye” might mollify the disquiet within himself, no amount of either would bring his friend back from the dead. After driving without purpose for what could possibly be hours, the pale, muted rays of the rising sun gently remind him that he really does need to sleep somewhere – anywhere, and so he settles upon the next motel he comes across.

His choice of lodgings – while of course nowhere near as ostentatious as his sumptuous bedchambers at the Van Dahl mansion, or even the modest-but-comfortable apartment he’d resided in since his resignation – are agreeable enough. He collapses, fully clothed, onto the tightly made bed, and drifts off into a fitful slumber.

****

The plan had played out just as Edward had anticipated, and now the stage was set and the clock was ticking. Oswald Cobblepot – crudely trussed to the remains of Isabella’s Plymouth Horizon – is entirely at his mercy.

Oswald begs. Pleads. Cries so hard he sputters to catch his breath, even has the audacity to profess his love. Oh, it’s a good show; Ed can admit that much. But it’s too little and too late, and crocodile tears won’t absolve his sins. Oswald must pay.

“Now, I was going to have you say hello to Isabella.” As he tightens the man’s silk cravat with more force than is entirely necessary, Edward has to restrain himself from simply wrapping his fingers around Oswald’s throat and gazing in merriment as his face contorts into ever more worrying shades of blue. “But... I think you are going to a very different place.”

_You do realise he’d do anything for you, Eddie._

The suggestion comes from somewhere deep inside, quiet yet insistent – a siren’s song so entrancing that it cannot be ignored. And in truth, Edward doesn’t want to.

_Anything._

It’s an absurd idea. Superfluous. Twenty minutes from now and the block of ice will melt, causing the vat of acid overhead to topple and annihilate them both. And yet...

_Take him, Eddie. It’s what you deserve. He owes you. You’ve dreamed of ruining him from the moment you first met. God knows you’ve got off on the idea often enough. Go on, Eddie. Do it. Make him fucking scream._

Unwilling to waste another second on brainless indecision, Ed cuts the rope binding Oswald’s legs and yanks down the mobster’s trousers before fumbling with his own, relishing the obscene sob of the zipper giving way. He’s half hard already – has been since he’d put a bullet between the eyes of Oswald’s hired thugs, in truth.

Oswald’s sobs give way to slack-jawed bewilderment then, his pale eyes large as dinner plates as Ed gives his glistening length a few earnest strokes before fully turning his attention to his prize.

It’s a precarious manoeuvre but Ed clambers astride Oswald, wincing as his knees graze against the mangled hood of the car. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growls, pausing mere millimetres from Oswald’s face as he grabs a handful of unkempt hair. He can feel the man’s heartbeat now, practically smell his terror as their bodies press together.

“Y-yes,” Oswald stammers, blinking furiously against the tears in his eyes, “but not-”

It’s more than enough for Edward; he doesn’t allow Oswald to finish the thought, clamping an overlarge palm over his mouth as he forces himself into Oswald’s ass with all the finesse of a barbarous horde.

It’s a catharsis of sorts, a culmination of want and desperation and base desire that has eaten away at Ed’s conscience for the better part of three years. As he begins to move, forcing Oswald to stretch ever wider to accommodate the impossibly large cock filling every inch of him, Edward removes the hand from Oswald’s mouth. He needs to hear him scream. Needs to own him, to make him hurt. Not for vengeance, not now – for the urges that won’t be satisfied otherwise. For the turmoil bubbling deep within his soul.

_Push harder. Deeper. Take what you deserve! Take it. Take it. Take-_

Oswald plays his part with utter perfection, howling as Ed impales him again and again, balls slapping skin in staccato precision, keeping pace like a tawdry sort of timepiece.

But somewhere between his cries and the vulgar squeals of the battered vehicle beneath them, Oswald is speaking, voice barely a whisper. A repeated mantra, cutting effortlessly through the din like a blade through silk. Without ceasing his frenetic momentum, Ed gazes down at his prey – an awed groan escaping his throat as he regards the tableau before him.

Oswald’s eyes are squeezed tight and his expression is one of cherubic ecstasy, rather than agony. His inky hair is plastered to his sweat-sodden forehead in severe streaks, and his reddened lips are barely parted as he reiterates, as if in prayer:

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me _fuck me fuck me fuck-”_

Spurred on by Oswald’s murmured incantation, Edward slams into the bound Penguin, blinded by obsessive need, perspiration beading on his forehead and dripping with every thrust. The slick impression of Oswald’s erection presses firmly into his stomach, and Ed is close now, so close. He just needs a little more-

But Oswald’s demeanour soon changes tack. His body tenses in Ed’s vice-like grip, and his pale, bloodshot eyes are now wide open and staring fixedly at the cauldron above them.

“We’re gonna die, Ed, _fuck,_ we’re gonna die, we’re going to die!” he wails, shuddering beneath Edward as his worry melts into a guttural moan. “Oh, God, I’m gonna c- I’m gonna come, _fuck-”_

Edward scarcely cares. He needs this, all of this. The acute sense of dread, the adrenaline and the long-coveted prize of Oswald’s heated flesh pressed against his own. But amidst it all, another aspect becomes prominent, a dim, low buzzing, which – against his will – focuses Ed’s thoughts pointedly towards his earlier encounter with the swarm of beetles. He won’t think about that now. He won’t. He-

_They’re coming..._

“No, no! Not now!” Ed cries. He clutches tightly to Oswald’s thighs – nails leaving contusions on pale skin – and thrusts himself deeper still. He’s too close; they both are. He can’t stop now. He won’t. They just need-

_Run._

****

Opening his eyes to the harsh light of the midday sun, it becomes apparent that this particular coitus interruptus is nothing more than his cellphone, practically vibrating itself off the nightstand. His sleep-fogged brain idly ponders the misnomer of so-called “silent mode” as he reluctantly answers the call.

A discordant pop and hiss are all that greet him from the other end of the line, however, and he nearly tosses the phone aside in exasperation. But as he fumbles with the buttons, eager for rest and – above all else – to return to the reverie he’s so abruptly left behind, the static gives way to a melody both sweet, and jarringly intimate.

_“The fire has gone out, wet from snow above. But nothing will warm me more, than my, my mother’s love...”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We assure you, we're going somewhere with this. ;)
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	2. Fear of a Blank Planet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward’s guilt manifests in the most perplexing of ways.

There is often a moment, when waking from sleep, when it becomes difficult for the mind to process a situation. If, for example, one were to awaken to the fetid breath and leering yellow eyes of a virulent beast perched upon one’s chest, a rational mind would take the irrationality of the scenario and presume that they are still fast asleep and having a particularly unpleasant dream.

Despite waking up in somewhat of an unorthodox position – seated on the floor leaning against the bed – at a cursory glance his surroundings still appear the same. The same off-white sheets – slightly rumpled but still clinging tightly to the overly firm mattress beneath them. The same magnolia-painted walls, the same austere grey curtains. The faint aroma of Sicilian-lemon furniture polish. His shoes by the door and his cellphone switched off and tossed aside following his unnerving previous awakening. The modest eighty-dollar-a-night motel room is just as he remembers. From what he can remember.

And yet...

“Rise and shine.” Leaning casually against the door, the exit – _the only exit,_ Edward notes, with moderate alarm – and bathed in the glow of static from the television set that Ed doesn’t personally recall leaving on, he stands – exceptionally tall – sneering down at Edward with the keen expression of a cat cornering a mouse.

_It can’t be._

“What are you doing here?” Ed spits, awkwardly shifting position to address his unwanted guest. His whole body aches, but that pales in comparison to the excruciating pain emanating from within his head. “I banished you for good.”

His companion grins. “Almost. Love of a good man and all that. Though,” he drawls, pointing two fingers at Edward and lowering his thumb in a crude mimicry of a handgun, “we both know how that turned out. Yikes.”

“That was an a-”

“An accident? Oh, come now, Eddie dear. Not this time. I believe you’re confused, after all – I was.” He tilts his head to the left in an expression of mock-concern. “Besides, the last time I checked, accidents don’t usually involve shooting your best friend and shoving him off the docks.”

“Fuck you,” Edward replies, wincing. He needs aspirin, Advil, or some fucking Vicodin for the searing pain in his skull.

“Well, wouldn’t that be quite the show?” his unwelcome visitor scoffs. “Your self-interest is, as always, beyond measure. But as it happens, I have something to show you that you’ll enjoy _so_ much more. Anyway,” he pauses, lips curled into a rapacious smirk as he strokes his chin as if deeply in thought, “don’t you want to know what we did last night? Of course you do.”

Despite the agonising aches and cramps bathing every inch of him, Edward deduces that he must still be asleep. He has to be. The logical option now is to ride the scenario out and go along with the vainglorious cunt – if he must. It’ll all be over soon and he’ll awaken – perhaps not quite as refreshed as he’d like, but pain-free, and more importantly: free of _him._

“Fine,” Ed croaks, rubbing his temples in a feeble attempt to ease the discomfort. “Fine. Show me.”

His other-self claps his hands together with childlike glee. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He delves into his breast pocket and retrieves a remote control, and presses play with all the gusto of a proud parent entertaining his relatives with footage of Baby’s first Christmas.

As the white noise on the television dissipates, the room is thrown into a suffocating blackness, and the other Edward’s final words seem to resonate in the hollow quiet.

“I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy the show!”

Thankful to be alone at last – regardless of the presentation in store for him – Ed shuffles into a more practical viewing position, as the darkened screen develops into footage that appears crudely out of focus at first, but soon gives way to a realism that is practically tangible. If Edward weren’t in so much pain, he’d perhaps reach out and attempt to touch what lies within.

The footage itself appears to be the unmistakable polished-concrete halls of Arkham Asylum, shot by means of a handheld camera. As the last chamber of the corridor draws ever closer, the rhythmic, echoing footsteps grind to a halt as an all-too-familiar voice begins to speak.

“Patient is presenting with delusions of grandeur and sociopathy. Signs are pointing towards latent psychopathy. Slight Oedipal tendencies, too. He’s proven unresponsive to various stimuli – both negative and positive, aversion therapy, electroconvulsive therapy, and several different courses of neuroleptic medication. We’re going to have to take a different approach.”

The camera judders and shakes for a moment before evidently being placed upon a stable surface, and as he strides into view, it’s no surprise (despite the sinking feeling in his stomach), that the host of tonight’s performance (live, from the comfort of your motel room!) is none other than Edward himself – immaculately suited underneath a long, white lab coat.

As he pauses before the door of the patient in question, he turns to face the screen, shedding his pressed white coat and donning, instead, a beastly grin – his mouthful of white teeth gleaming like snow beneath the illuminating caress of moonlight. It’s as though he’s peering straight through the camera’s lens and into Edward himself, taunting without uttering a single word. For too long a moment he holds the gaze, and all at once he’s the monster underneath a child’s bed, a spectre skulking the shadows – the Big Bad Wolf spying his next morsel.

Edward’s stomach roils, and he gropes for the nearby wastebin; he knows, before the heavy, padded door even opens, just who the hapless “patient” is going to be.

“No,” he whispers, fighting against the bile rising in his throat. “No. He’s... he’s _dead.”_

Unexpectedly, the Edward Nygma on the television answers. “Is he?” he questions, leering through the screen and raising a quizzical eyebrow. “I was never entirely sure. But if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

When the chamber’s contents are revealed at last, Edward can only gawp in horror as the scene plays out before him. The camera zooms in on Oswald Cobblepot, very much alive and bound to an operating table. He’s completely naked – save for a blindfold, and an expression of utmost panic.

Edward’s other-self disrobes, a malicious smirk playing at his lips as he clambers astride his quarry and shoots one last, lingering glance into the camera lens.

“You’re my best friend as well, Oswald,” he growls, turning his attention fully to Oswald – who whimpers like a rabbit caught in a snare as Ed painstakingly presses inside. “Remember that.”

“No,” Ed begs. “Please, no.” But the futile plea falls upon deaf ears, and all he can do is watch in dismay as the wolf devours its prey, as the Edward on-screen claims Oswald completely.

Every detail is caught and preserved on camera with striking clarity, from the mixture of anguish and arousal contorting Oswald’s delicate features to the force and speed with which Ed’s doppelgänger drives into his helpless patient – Oswald straining against his bonds as he submits to this seemingly endless “therapy” session.

Edward cannot move for the agony in his cranium, and in his body. He’s trapped, forced to endure this heinous display. And it’s loud, too loud. Even if he were to close his eyes there’d be no way to block out the awful din, the moans, the grunts, and the incessant howls. He clings to the tenuous notion that this cannot possibly be happening. Oswald is dead; this is clearly a dream or an elaborate hallucination – a projection of impulse and nothing more. He clutches his head as the vulgar presentation builds to its climax and then... mercifully, it’s all gone.

All of it. The horrendous pain, the Penguin’s wanton cries, the mad cackling of Edward’s other-self as he thrusts violently, ceaselessly into Oswald – replaced with utter silence and a darkness so stagnant and impenetrable that Ed reflexively gasps for breath. The air is too close. Too thick. Too heavy. He could drown in the morass, smothered in this atramentous hell with only his own cruel voice ringing in his ears.

_Remember that._

****

It’s the overwhelming stench of alcohol – cheap beer, if he’s guessing – that hits Edward first. He’s never cared for the taste or the aroma, but the rancid yeastiness filling his lungs proves a welcome tonic for the evaporating void. This is fine. Everything’s going to be fine. It’s-

“Riddle Man?”

The hard-earned confidence Ed has built over the past two years leeches away at once, like the soapy remnants of a bubble bath swirling inexorably towards the bathtub drain. He has to remind himself to inhale.

Tom Dougherty. Asshole cop. Abusive prick. Dead man.

Edward’s first instinct is to simply back away, get into his car – which has somehow materialised behind him, along with the rest of the quiet street where Kristen Kringle once lived – and flee. It was foolish to come here, foolish to think this would help. But… did he really come here?

The lumbering brute is saying something, laughing as he saunters closer, but he may as well be speaking underwater. Edward cannot hear him for the swell of panic engulfing his mind.

Setting aside the ironclad fact that Tom is dead – personally dismembered and disposed of by Edward himself, his skull smashed to bits in a fit of gleeful malevolence – Ed cannot remember actually coming here. He doesn’t recall driving, doesn’t recall anything before that odoriferous cretin stumbled into view. What the fuck is this?

Perhaps it doesn’t matter – not now anyway. Deep in his gut, Ed knows he can defend himself. He’s every bit David facing Goliath, but as he fingers the proverbial slingshot tucked away in the pocket of his coat, a queer sensation of calm and control takes over.

“Don’t take this personal.”

_Fuck._ Edward sinks to his knees in agony; Dougherty’s fist connecting with his gut feels no better than it had during their first tête-à-tête, and he sucks in a shuddering breath while simultaneously brandishing the means to his salvation.

The pocketknife slides into Dougherty’s yielding flesh as though it were sorbet on a sweltering August afternoon, and oh, it feels good. So fucking good. The adrenaline, the rage, the power – they meld into a delirious sense of ecstasy, and Ed jabs the knife into his victim again and again and again, grunting as though he’s enjoying the best fuck of his life.

This is the part Edward would always remember best, the part he returned to time and again during his nocturnal ministrations, eyes squeezed tight as he bit his lip and inelegantly worked himself to a hasty and satisfying release. He’d memorised every detail of Dougherty’s demise, the way he fell limply to his knees, slack-jawed and eyes vacant, utterly powerless in his grip. His final words laced equally with awe and fear. Reliving that moment is almost worth whatever hell this is.

“Remember that,” Dougherty pants, before his lifeless body falls back on the concrete with a graceless thud.

_Wait, no,_ Ed thinks as he’s swallowed again by complete and crushing blackness. _No, that’s not right. That’s not what-_

****

He’d always known it wouldn’t last. Once more he finds himself bathed in the post-coital afterglow of his intimate evening with Kristen Kringle, only to be sharply brought back down to earth with all the grace of a helicopter crash.

She’s giving him that look, the one he always feared – and, deep down, always knew – was never gone for good. He can see it now, the complete and utter revulsion etched upon her face as she regards him with the same disdain one might reserve for finding an insect in one’s food. Kristen Kringle was never going to love him for who he is. The spell was always meant to be broken; the other shoe was always going to drop.

“I can’t believe I even fell for you, you sicko.”

Rushing to gather her scattered garments, she hurls epithets like stones, and the invectives – freak, monster, psycho – hurt no less than if they were.

“You are going to prison where they will do horrible things to you,” she hisses. “Things that you deserve.”

Her words loop endlessly in his head – the names, the disgust, the threat of Arkham and all the horrors held within, and although a part of Edward wants to retreat within himself and let her turn him in, he clings to the feeble idea that this time he can fix things. This time can be different.

If only she will listen. She has to. She has to understand.

He has to make her.

“Don’t say that to me,” Edward pleads, needing above all else for her to simply stop and allow him to explain. He reaches for her, and she recoils as though his touch were poison.

“No, let go. Don’t touch me!” she shrieks.

But caught between the sliding metal apartment door and Ed’s lanky frame, Kristen has nowhere to go. Edward clamps a large palm over her mouth to silence her cries, but she’s still fighting – still not hearing him.

“Listen to me. I am not the man that you think I am.” His right hand curves around her neck, squeezing just a little – just enough to make her stop. Please stop. Please just _listen._

“I did it for you. I promise I will never do anything to hurt you ever again. I love you-”

Ed chokes back a sob. He’s heard that sort of desperation before, the wild cries of a man with everything at stake and nothing else to lose – not from his own lips, but from Oswald’s.

_Oh, God._

It’s far too late when Edward remembers just how hard he’s pressing against Kristen’s windpipe and finally thinks to remove his hands, trembling as a nauseating realisation hits him: he’s done it again. _No. No. Fuck._

“Please, no. No!” Ed wails, as Kristen’s body slides to the floor in lifeless surrender, her rose-coloured lips parted with one final plea:

“Remember that.”

****

All things considered, it’s somewhat of a welcome relief – when the smothering darkness disperses once more – for Edward to find himself surrounded by the lush greenery of Freeman Forest. Despite being the very location at which he met his downfall by the hands of Jim Gordon, he would forever associate it with this exact moment in time.

The ceremony hadn’t just been for Kristen, of course; it had been a celebration of his own rebirth. While he could have just as easily disposed of her body via the means of the GCPD’s incinerator, the tranquillity of this precise location had been a reassuring reminder of the harmony he felt within himself, after facing his inner demons and banishing them – or perhaps embracing them – for good.

Edward allows himself the courtesy of relaxing – for as misdemeanours go, this inconsequential event was as close to “no strings attached” as he was ever likely to experience. He plays out his part, uncorking the merlot and relishing the sour aroma amidst the scent of warm ash bark – it’s unfortunate he’ll never get to take a sip.

A true sense of serenity descends upon him as he recites his eulogy, even though he knows, of course, that he’s about to be rudely interrupted very soon.

“That some sort of riddle?”

And here he is. Ed had always believed that John Doe was such a crude moniker for a person of unknown identity. As such, he had taken to internally referring to this particular unfortunate fellow as Paul Ferry. He was never entirely sure why, but it never failed to put a smile on his face; impersonal homicide is so impersonal, after all.

“You know, you really shouldn’t sneak up on people; that’s not polite.”

“Not usually any people out here,” the hunter replies.

_Only the ones burying their dead girlfriends,_ Ed thinks, with a smirk. _Time for you to shuffle off this mortal coil, Mr. Ferry._

Whether or not the inquisitive gentleman would have cared for a tea sandwich (although Ed shivers at the notion that Oswald most certainly would have) promptly becomes irrelevant as Edward swings his shovel overhead, bringing it down over the man’s skull with a satisfying crack.

Mildly irritated that he’s broken his shovel _again,_ and that now he’ll have to improvise _again,_ Edward idly regards his victim – only to be taken completely off-guard when the old man speaks one final time, the timbre of his voice coalescing with the wind fluttering through the surrounding foliage, as the vicinity succumbs to a swirling, obsidian fog once more:

“Remember that.”

****

Before even setting foot in the place, Ed knew precisely what sort of abode a man like Carl Pinkney would keep. As a former state wrestling champ and academy running back, the man practically pissed rainbows and shit twenty-dollar bills in the eyes of the GCPD’s elephantine fearless leader: Captain Barnes. Edward – as somebody who spent the majority of his educative years face-down in the dirt at the hands of degenerates like Pinkney – had gleaned far more delight than he probably should have from this specific transgression. Oh, how the worm has turned.

Wrinkling his nose at the stench of gym socks and Carl’s post-workout physique, Ed delivers his improvised punchline with just as much ardour as its original incarnation, giggling as his victim sways, ready to hit the floor with comedic timing. This time, however, he cries out – his call reverberating around the walls of his spartan apartment:

“Remember that.”

****

For Edward Nygma, something is always better than nothing, but as the oppressing shadows deplete once more, his stomach drops as though he’s just hit an unforeseen dip in the road.

Of course, he shouldn’t be surprised to end up here – to feel the refreshing kiss of cool rain against his skin once more as a distraught Oswald pleads for his life. After all, no retrospective peregrination into the worst of his misdeeds would be complete without stopping at this particular juncture. Even so, seeing Oswald again – living, breathing, crying, besets Edward with such disequilibrium that he struggles to keep himself upright.

“Doing this, it will change you,” the mobster sputters, tears streaming freely down his reddened cheeks. “This won’t be a crime of passion or self-preservation. This will be the cold-blooded murder of someone you love.”

“I don’t love you,” Ed replies flatly, but it feels like lip-service – as though he’s reading from some unseen script, mouthing words that aren’t his own. This is how it happened; this is what he’s meant to say.

But the truth is much more complicated. Does he love Oswald Cobblepot? The terrifying fact – given that he charged ahead so brashly, and with such certainty in his quest for vengeance – is that Edward honestly doesn’t know. Love and hate, pain and passion – they’re too closely intertwined for him to attempt to dissect now. Perhaps with more time…

Except there is none.

Once this little jaunt down memory lane plays out – and it will, Ed knows, just as all the others have done – Oswald will return to his watery grave. There will be no saving him, no last-second reprieve for the man who had been his best friend.

He’s being punished. This, Edward deduces, is somehow his other-self fucking with him, nothing more than cruel chicanery meant to unsettle and inflame. What other purpose could these sadistic tableaux possibly serve?

“Ed, are you listening to me?”

He swallows; his mouth feels like sandpaper. “I’m listening.”

“Say something,” Oswald pleads.

_Do it. Just do it so this can all be over._

Ed resigns himself to the words he has to say, but nonetheless he hesitates, his finger poised at the trigger. This isn’t what he wants, he thinks frantically; this isn’t what should have happened.

But it did.

He shuts his eyes tight – like a child hiding from the crackling peals of lightning and thunder – and squeezes the trigger, unable to watch the shock and betrayal spread across Oswald’s face for a second time.

As his friend’s body hits the water with a splash, Edward rushes to the edge of the dock, falling to his knees as Oswald begins to sink below the murky blue-green surface. He lingers – waiting and hoping for a different outcome, despite how foolhardy logic tells him it is – before at last coming to grips with the inescapable truth.

Oswald is truly, irrevocably gone.

But just before tendrils of crimson from the gunshot wound obscure Oswald’s submerging visage entirely, he mouths his final words in an unsettling and silent appeal:

“Remember that.”

****

The tenebrous void dissipates, and once more he finds himself underneath the elevated train, outside Kristen’s house. He plays out his part as expected, Tom’s final, jarring reiteration of “Remember that” coming as no surprise this time.

And now he’s back amidst the eclectic decor of his old apartment, pleading with Kristen to just see some fucking _sense._

“Remember that,” she whispers, as she breathes her last.

Now it’s time for his sojourn in the woods. So long, Mr. Ferry, we barely knew thee... but what exactly am I supposed to be remembering, old man?

Ball game. Sweat. Gym socks. Edward’s well-timed punchline. “Remember that,” Pinkney cries, before he hits the floor.

“Remember that,” Oswald silently pleads as the cold, sodden hands of Gotham harbour pull him back to the depths, and the entire scene is plunged into an inky quagmire once more.

And it all plays out again. And again. And again, and Ed is powerless to do anything but act out his part as intended. Tom. Kristen. The guy from the woods. Pinkney. Oswald. Remember that. Remember that. Remember that. Remember that.

_Remember that._

****

Gasping for breath, Edward startles back to the present as the familiar confines of his motel room careen back into focus. His entire body aches – joints stiff from disuse – and while the moonlight filtering in through the drapery tells him it’s now past nightfall, Ed cannot be certain just how long he’s been performing to the tune of this perplexing purgatory. But thankfully, mercifully, the sneering countenance of the other Edward Nygma is nowhere in sight.

Being no stranger to the complexities of the human psyche – manifestations of guilt aren’t wont to happen without actual guilt, after all – Ed resolves to at least attempt to do _something_ right, and promptly gathers his keys to visit Oswald’s final resting place once and for all.

****

Standing at the precipice of Gotham’s docks, the frigid wind nipping at every exposed extremity and agitating the muddied waters below, Edward takes a deep, steadying breath in an attempt to steel himself for the gargantuan task at hand.

“Oswald, I…”

How, exactly, does one begin to apologise for firing a pistol into their best friend’s gut and leaving him to die? Every word Edward can think of sounds too trite, too small. _“Gee, Ozzie, sorry I shot you. In hindsight that might have been a bit rash. No harm, no foul though, right?”_

Ed sighs. It doesn’t matter. Oswald isn’t around to hear his clumsy redress; this is for himself, to assuage his guilt and perhaps regain some semblance of sanity.

“Oswald, you were right,” he begins again. “As it happens, your death… murder, wasn’t the same as all the others I have committed. Even with Miss Kringle, I was able to reconcile my feelings and find the necessity in what I’d done. And I should be able to brush this off. You killed Isabella; you had to be punished. It’s an exceedingly simple concept. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.”

_Yet here we are,_ he thinks bitterly.

“I suppose this is what guilt feels like; I have to admit it’s not an emotion I’m overly familiar with.” Edward pauses, quietly contemplating the current of the river as it churns past the end of the dock, before at last finding the nerve to say what he came here for. “You were my best friend, Oswald. And I’m sorry. I don’t know if I loved you – or if I could have – but you were mine. And regardless of anything else, I should have listened and-”

He swallows hard and exhales slowly. “Oswald, I will regret killing you for the rest of my life. I’m sorry. I’m so-”

His makeshift eulogy is halted in its tracks as a cool hand clamps firmly down upon his right shoulder. Aggravated, he turns sharply, ready to reprimand whomever dare attempt to take this moment of tremendous significance from him... only to find himself face to face with one Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in Hell.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	3. Come Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are ghosts real?

Whenever Edward Nygma’s other half had come out to play, be it the spiteful presence of the young boy in the mirror, or the far more malevolent adult incarnation, Ed had – for want of a better phrase – always felt somewhat in control, regardless. _He_ exists because _I_ exist, therefore he is only able to do what I give him the power to do. Even the very event that had ultimately driven him to his heartfelt apology at the docks – despite the sense of abject terror it had bestowed upon him – had happened primarily because Edward himself had allowed it to happen. Cause and effect.

Every aberration Ed had ever experienced yielded a quality – an intangible aura of uncertainty. Granted, the frenzied eroticism of his knife penetrating the robust bulk of Tom Dougherty’s chest had seemed real enough while he repeatedly danced to the beat of his past transgressions, but deep down, he’d known that he was the driving force – the director, if you will – of his own twisted theatrical production. Without him, it would all cease to be. However, their plausibility had always unquestionably been without measure – whether it was the skittering sensation of being overwhelmed by an irate swarm of beetles, or the scent of Kristen’s sweet perfume as he tightened his grip around her neck once more. But not a one of them – not a single one could measure up to the authenticity of Oswald Cobblepot standing before him at this very moment.

Oswald is dressed in an uncharacteristic ensemble of rumpled black trousers and an overlarge plum and charcoal-striped sweater, and he’s sporting Velcro sneakers instead of his inordinately expensive Louis Vuitton wing tips. Deep purple shadows have settled in beneath his eyes, which are red and glassy, and he’s regarding Edward with an expression of utmost concern. He’s speaking, apparently, but Ed can barely hear him, his mind in absolute turmoil as he contemplates their surroundings, trying to make sense of their location.

The tiny room is sparse, one chair set at a small metal folding table, one bed and a weathered hardwood bookshelf by the door – containing several dust-covered volumes that have undoubtedly seen better days. There’s one dim light bulb minus a shade, protruding from the centre of the ceiling like a condemned man. The wallpaper is a black and silver fleur-de-lis pattern, torn in places and revealing the cracked plaster underneath. The room puts Ed vaguely in mind of Carl Pinkney’s place – minus the plethora of sports equipment, but perhaps that’s just the smell.

“Where are we?” It’s a hackneyed query, Ed knows. But the only thing he’s truly certain of at this point – is the fact that he woke up here, not five minutes ago.

“It’s a delightful locale, isn’t it,” says Oswald, with somewhat of a nervous chuckle. Edward can’t help but notice the endearing manner with which he flutters his eyelashes. “However, I felt it prudent to bring you here after you fainted back there, on the docks. We’re at the safe house, just like you planned, remember?”

Edward squeezes his eyes tight, and images from the past couple of days flash like a disjointed slideshow. Beetles. Car. Motel. Oswald’s face contorted in a disquieting display of pain and pleasure. Tom, Kristen et al. _Remember that._ But beyond that, he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember a fucking thing.

“Ed…?” Oswald asks quietly.

Edward is trembling slightly, a fact that doesn’t register until Oswald’s cool hands cup his face, jarring him from the gaping holes in his memory and anchoring him firmly in the present. When he opens his eyes, he and Oswald are mere inches apart, practically nose to nose, and though it’s trite and saccharine, Ed imagines that the entire world outside has paused.

It’s curious, Ed thinks, how he never really noticed the dusting of freckles across the bridge of Oswald’s nose. It reminds him of a rare early April snowfall that frosted the city once when he was boy. He isn’t certain why, exactly, but it fills him with longing, and he has to stop himself from reaching up and lazily tracing his thumb across Oswald’s cheek.

“Ed,” Oswald repeats, softer still, and Edward shakes off the frivolous notion as the earth turns on its axis once more.

“No, I don’t remember. Just fragments here and there,” Edward admits. He winces as he regards Oswald fully, half-tempted to lift his sweater and bear witness to the damage he’s inflicted firsthand. “But enough, I suppose.”

The enormity of the situation suddenly weighs on him, and nearly knocks the air out of his lungs. Oswald is alive. Oswald is fucking alive and he loves him and he’s standing so damn close that every exhalation seems to caress Ed’s chin and beckon him closer still. He catches the familiar scent of peppermint and that inscrutable warmth, and his stomach clenches in anticipation of how these next few moments might play out.

Possibility – the promise imbued in wistful phrases such as “what if” and “perhaps one day” – is tantalising and dangerous. Anything could happen now. He could turn and focus on their myriad woes, just as the old Edward Nygma – that “stuttering jittery loser” would have done. Or he could force Oswald to his knees and watch as the cocky mobster swallows his dick down to the balls, lips reddened as he sucks and slurps and moans around his flesh in utter submission.

And he wants that. Fuck everything that’s happened between them, what he wants, above all else – more than revenge, more than renown, more than Butch fucking Gilzean’s head on a platter – is simply Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, any way he can get him, and in every way imaginable. His need for him is absolute, fundamental – as basic as air and food and light and water, and as unflagging as a heroin addict’s devotion to the blissful prick of a needle.

Without another thought, he’s kissing Oswald, coaxing his lips apart with his tongue – probing, feeling, tasting, savouring. The clichéd thing to say is that Oswald tastes sweet, or like some sort of juicy summer fruit – but if he does, Ed doesn’t notice. It’s the heat that he’s enamoured with – the firm yet pliant dance of tongues as their mouths meet in resolution of the tension that’s settled palpably between them ever since sharing in Mr. Leonard’s grisly demise.

Oswald matches Edward’s fervour with his own, hands clawing and grabbing and groping – and before Ed realises, his pants and belt hit the floor with a dull thud.

He grips Oswald’s inky mop of hair and curls his fingers around the strands, noting with some surprise that it’s nearly as soft as a kitten. But instead of evoking the desire to cradle and protect, Edward is inundated with the inescapable urge to push harder, to bury himself inside, to despoil until there’s no doubting that Oswald is his. He pulls his head back and sucks at Oswald’s exposed neck, drinking in every hungry sigh that breaks from the Penguin’s throat.

“Fuck,” he groans against Oswald’s skin, delighting in bruises already beginning to bloom, and each desperate moan from his companion’s lips gives Ed more agency to act, to take – to unloose the devil inside and let him ravage however he will.

He needs more – so much more than fate has allowed them thus far. It isn’t enough to touch Oswald or to kiss him; he has to be inside of him, has to feel the intimacy that comes from being completely undone at another person’s hands.

It’s a fantasy Edward has entertained for far longer than he’d care to admit, and he’s briefly struck with a terrifying notion: what if, somehow, this is no more authentic than the troubling dreams and phantasms plaguing him of late?

“Please,” Oswald whimpers, his erection apparent as he rolls his hips into Edward, and with that simple plea all worry is abandoned. Suddenly they’re moving, shedding pants and shoes and shirts as they pitch about the place in a circuitous, breakneck ballet.

“Please, what?” Ed murmurs when they reach the wrought iron bedframe. He knows, without a doubt, precisely what Oswald is asking for, but he has to hear it. It isn’t enough to imagine the words; from this moment on – now that he’s touched Oswald and tasted him, now that he’s so fucking close to having it all – fantasy will never be more than a poor imitation of the real thing.

_Say it, Oz. Say it, please._

“Fuck me,” Oswald breathes, his lips pressed against Edward’s. “Will you, please?”

With a wild and lascivious grin, Ed pushes the smaller man onto the bed and, in one quick effortless motion, flips him onto his stomach like a cattleman about to subdue a wayward calf.

Oswald gives a little yelp of surprise, but wastes no time scrambling onto all fours, gripping the grey pinstripe duvet in zealous anticipation, and Edward cannot help but smirk at his enthusiasm. Always so eager to please. Such fervour deserves a reward, and Ed feels as though he’s going to burn away as anticipation chars every fraying thread of self-control he possesses to cinders. But Oswald isn’t ready – not yet.

Instead, Edward spreads Oswald’s ass and sets to exploring the puckered entrance with his tongue. It’s a clumsy effort – he’s working solely off instinct rather than experience – but it has the desired effect nonetheless. Oswald is squirming, writhing, his entire body coursing with unadulterated lust.

“Ed, _fuck,”_ he moans.

Teasing Oswald is more enjoyable than he ever imagined, but Edward cannot keep this up much longer. He’s so fucking hard, so fucking ready to feel the clench of narrow muscle enveloping every inch of his cock.

“Say it again, Oswald,” Ed murmurs into his flesh. “Say it again.”

“Please,” Oswald whines, as Ed dips his tongue in once more. “Fuck me, Edward. Fuck me now, I need you-”

Oswald doesn’t stop begging – pleading to be filled and used until Edward finally relents and scrambles into position behind him. He presses Oswald’s face into the soft mattress and lines his cock up against his companion’s taut, wet hole. He’s ready now; they both are.

A gasp escapes his throat at the soft pop of yielding muscle as he enters Oswald fully; it’s tight, so fucking _tight,_ and every fantasy he’s had – every sordid reverie he’s ever enjoyed about this very moment pales in comparison to the sensation of being deep inside Oswald Cobblepot, right here and right now.

A series of guttural groans muffled into the bedding dispel any fears Ed has about whether Oswald is ready, and so he begins to move – slowly at first, like the gears of an engine begrudgingly whirring to life, but building, faster and faster, until he hits a steady and uncompromising pace.

He loses himself in the succulent warmth of Oswald, in his vulgar cries, in the innate satisfaction of having transmogrified fantasy to reality. Fingers digging into Oswald’s hips, he pushes harder, sinks further – until the dissonant thwack of sweat-slicked flesh against flesh and the broken howls of his companion are all that Edward knows.

He reaches around to grip Oswald’s cock, all but neglected thus far, and begins to stroke him in earnest. He’s teetering at the brink now, a man on a tightrope, but he needs Oswald with him when he falls. It has to be together. He needs this. He needs Oswald. He needs-

“Come for me, Oz. Come- I need you to come with me,” Ed pants, every vigorous thrust driving him further towards delirium, his frenetic rhythm never ceasing. “Oswald- _Fuck-”_

They come together – Oswald spurting hot and wet around Edward’s fist as he’s driven into the mattress with every ounce of force Ed can muster – and the humble space swells with a cacophony of profanity and abused bedsprings.

The din quickly fades, however, and they’re left with the quiescent calm of each other’s racing hearts and ragged breath. They stay that way for a while, minutes bleeding into an hour, exhausted and silent – content to simply be. Edward and Oswald, together, united – the way it should have been a long time ago. The way it will always be from this moment forward.

And suddenly Oswald is too far away, and Edward feels unable to breathe; he’s drowning in his isolation. He needs to feel Oswald once more, to experience every inch of his body, by taste and by touch. He has to hear him moan again, hear the libidinous cries from his throat – that intoxicating fusion of desperation and mania. It’s as though the world without Oswald may as well cease to exist. With him, that wouldn’t even matter.

He reaches across the faded bedspread, fingertips brushing against the smooth skin of Oswald’s bare chest and coming to a stop to feel the man’s heartbeat. He’s alive and he’s here, and that’s all that matters. That’s all that will ever matter. But it’s not enough. Before he succumbs to the onset of complete and utter exhaustion, Edward clambers astride Oswald, and takes both their cocks into his overlarge palm.

Oswald groans, squirming against Ed’s weight – his eyes squeezed tight and mouth agape as their cocks stiffen with each frenzied pass of his hand. It’s complete and utter perfection to see Oswald coming apart beneath him piece by sordid piece, his ebony hair thoroughly bedraggled and his pointed features flushed with wanton desire. The mere sight of him looking this way – as though being fucked by Edward Nygma is the only thing worth living for – combined with the slick sensation of cock sliding wetly against cock soon becomes far too much to bear, however. Edward needs to be inside of Oswald again, _right fucking now._

He reaches for one of the threadbare pillows, capturing Oswald’s mouth for a feverish, heated kiss of bruised lips and tongues as he does so, and wedges it inelegantly beneath Oswald’s hips.

He shudders as he presses inside for the second time, as that hot, undulating pressure threatens to swallow him whole. Eyes locked fiercely upon Oswald’s, he begins to move, deeper, deeper still, each precision-timed roll of his hips sending him ever closer to his release. He buries his head in the crook of Oswald’s neck, nipping and sucking and biting at the slick, salty flesh, enamoured with the flavour and the reverberation of each and every tawdry moan escaping Oswald’s throat.

He’s close now, he’s so fucking close. But he needs to see it this time, see the look on Oswald’s face as he unravels, entirely at Edward’s mercy. With both hands he presses firmly onto the heated, sticky flesh of Oswald’s chest as he levers himself upwards – forcing his slight frame further into the abused mattress as Ed marvels at the display before him.

It’s a remarkable sight to behold: a man once so dapper and pristine, fucked-out and completely wrecked – a glossy sheen of perspiration coating every inch of his bruised, ivory skin, his pupils blown out entirely and his swollen lips parted in an unending litany of indecent groans and coarse profanity.

“Ed...” he moans. “I need you to- I need you to... _fuck-”_

What Oswald wants soon becomes unabashedly apparent when he reaches out and grabs Edward firmly by the wrists, insistent fingers tugging Ed’s hands ever closer to his long, pale neck.

_Oh, God._

Oswald’s eyes silently urge him to continue as he releases his grip, and Ed’s hands move, seemingly of their own free will to enclose his throat like a serpent.

_No, no, fuck!_

Edward stills for just a moment – thumbs lightly brushing the underside of Oswald’s chin – unable to move, unable to think. Oswald can’t want this. He can’t.

But he does.

“Do it,” he whispers. It’s a simple request – laced with longing and an immeasurable amount of danger. Ed finds himself powerless to do anything but comply.

_Fuckfuckfuck-_

And suddenly he’s squeezing, tighter, tighter still, gazing down at Oswald as his pale features blossom with fresh patches of crimson. He rolls his hips, thrusting into Oswald anew, achingly slow to start, but gaining momentum as he presses and releases Oswald’s throat – keeping time with each laborious croak of the bedsprings.

Edward’s rhythm now set, he begins to truly lose himself, revelling in this overwhelming sensation of utmost dominance. With every ebb of his punishing grip, Oswald gasps and sputters for air – spurring Ed to press harder, drive deeper. He needs it now, needs that blissful release. But first, he needs just one more thing.

“Touch yourself, Oswald. Please,” he pants. “I need to see you.”

Oswald complies readily, gulping for air like a drowning man taking his final few breaths with each sloppy stroke of his hand, and Edward squeezes – presses harder against his windpipe with each frantic pass. Oswald’s face is beetroot red now; it’s a sublime spectacle beyond all measure, and they come together once more – a delirious discord of profanity falling from Ed’s lips as it seeps out around him, warm and sticky and oh-so-fucking _right._

They separate slowly – heated skin parting reluctantly from skin – and enjoy a moment of consummate serenity, limbs intertwined and breathing synchronised. Ed marvels at the appearance of Oswald’s bruised neck – a testament to Oswald’s complete trust in him, despite their history. It’s perfect. Oswald is perfect. He’s-

_Perfect._

It hits him like a sucker punch to the gut, and he almost retches as a result. How could he be so blind? Oswald _is_ perfect. _Completely_ perfect. Aside from those administered by Edward himself, in the heat of their passion in this very room, there’s not a single mark upon his body. No gunshot wound, no scar, no nothing.

Edward leaps from the bed as if it were made of vipers, clumsily tugging his pants back on as he backs away towards the exit.

“Ed? Ed, what is it?” Oswald shouts as he scrambles out of bed after him.

_No. No, no, no! Not again._ It was real; he was so certain. So sure. Everything is made of quicksand now, and he’s slipping, flailing helplessly – plummeting into the gaping maw of some execrable abyss.

He was so fucking stupid. Of course it wasn’t real. Good things don’t happen to monsters, after all. And that’s what he is.

He needs to leave. He needs quiet – he needs one fucking day where he isn’t haunted by his mistakes.

“Who are you?” Ed roars, groping at the nearby table for cups and cutlery and lobbing them blindly, wide black eyes never leaving the man in front of him. _“Who are you?!”_

Oswald does nothing but raise his hands in mock-surrender, the way one might corner a skittish alley cat before offering a saucer of milk, awkwardly trying to deflect the objects as they whip past. “Edward, it’s... it’s Oswald. It’s me. I don’t understand-”

He takes a step forward as Ed’s fingers find the solid, leather-bound spine of a book and he heaves it with all his remaining strength. “Go away,” Edward wails, his voice breaking with resignation that this is the hell he’s fated to – a neverending purgatory in which he’s forced to watch as everything he’s ever cherished crumbles right in front of him.

By some divine force his aim is true, and there’s a sickening squelch as the corner of his projectile hits Oswald squarely in the right eye.

Oswald yelps in pain, one hand immediately flying up to instinctively cup his face, but he doesn’t cease his advances. He inches forward, his free hand outstretched as if in truce.

“Jesus, _fuck,_ Ed.” His voice wavers, as though he’s choking back a sob. It’s loud, far too loud. Edward doesn’t dare look at him.

“You aren’t real,” Edward mutters, sinking to the floor and clutching his long legs to his chest the way he used to when he was a child. “You aren’t real. You aren’t real.”

Any moment now, he expects to open his eyes and find himself on the docks beneath a dismal grey sky, the weight of a Smith & Wesson heavy in his hand. He can almost feel the drizzle soaking through his skin, the chill spreading to his bones. And above all, he can hear Oswald’s strained and pleading voice:

“Look at me, dammit.”

There’s a sharpness to his tone that jars Ed from his tribulation, and when he opens his eyes it’s all still here – the bed, the bookshelf, the fucking fleur-de-lis wallpaper. And Oswald Cobblepot, naked as the day he was born, kneeling in front of him with tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Does this fucking look like it isn’t real?”

Oswald sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as he removes his hand, revealing the trauma to his eye. The surrounding flesh is swollen and a sickening shade of deepest mauve, but what’s most concerning is the fact that the white of the eye is now filled with blood, swirling languidly beneath the membrane.

“Subconjunctival haemorrhage,” Edward whispers. It’s a comforting sensation, of sorts. An absolute certainty amidst the ataxia within his mind: knowledge. “We need to get you... we need to get you to a doctor.”

But Oswald doesn’t falter, instead reaching out to cup Edward’s face once more. “Ed, I assure you – I am real, and I am not going anywhere.”

For the first time, Oswald’s hands are warm. Ed thinks of the fireplace in the Van Dahl mansion, the flames dancing in Oswald’s eyes as he leans in for a tender embrace. He thinks of ginger tea and honey, of soft silk and longing looks. He thinks of bloodstained fingers accidentally grazing one another, as they share in the pleasure of sliding a blade into the writhing abdomen of Mr. Leonard.

He knows beyond a doubt that those things happened. They’re real; they ground him. Something in the flush of Oswald’s skin and the memories it abjures from the tumult twisting his mind into knots lend a corporeal quality to the present that steadies him. And he wants to believe him, more than anything. He wants for all of this to have been real – not just for the intimacy of their reunion, but for the simple fact that Oswald is alive.

“What is this place?” he murmurs to himself. “I don’t-”

“Don’t you remember?” Oswald interjects, and Edward’s mind flounders for answers he cannot find.

_Just like you planned, remember?_

_Remember that._

_Remember._

If only he could.

There’s more he’s missing; perhaps filling these gaps in memory will be just the balm to settle his soul completely. But not now, he thinks, regarding the nasty contusion marring Oswald’s face. Not yet.

“We need to have your eye looked at,” Ed says, resolve settling as he rises to his feet and gathers the rest of their clothes. “Then you can tell me everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	4. You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us in Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's showtime.

The illustrious mayor of Gotham City cannot, of course, just show up at the nearest hospital with severe eye trauma – especially when said noble leader has been missing for several days.

As such, Oswald had declined Edward’s frantic pleas to allow him to drive them to Gotham General Hospital, and had simply called in the services of a man known throughout the higher rankings of Gotham’s underworld by the rather twee and unassuming moniker of “The Gingerbread Man”.

The Gingerbread Man, or Elliot Barnett – to his mother, at least – was a short, foul-mouthed Englishman bearing a mop of copper-coloured hair and a perpetual smirk, who was prone to interjecting a pop culture reference into nearly every conversation, regardless of whether he was engaging in polite small talk over coffee or digging a round out of someone’s mangled chest. A notoriously tight-lipped fellow, and seemingly impervious to pain – much to the chagrin of many a petty criminal who’d attempted to glean information from him – Barnett was also a former trauma surgeon, and now the owner of a modest but respectable bakery: Fabuleux Pâtisserie. Croissants and mille-feuille by day, gunshot wounds and viscera by night.

Elliot had arrived promptly and with little fanfare, bearing a large, oxblood leather physician’s bag and a box of assorted pastries, and had instructed Edward – in the politest way possible – to “Get the fuck out of my face while I’m working, mate”.

Edward had done just that.

The safe house’s bathroom was as modest and borderline dilapidated as the rest of the establishment: a faded black and white checkerboard linoleum, canary yellow-painted walls, one cracked porcelain washbasin with rusted faucets and a matching clawfoot bathtub, and a smaller-than-average toilet bearing a vivid chartreuse seat.

_If none of this is real,_ Ed thinks, _then which infernal purgatory did I pull this odious decor from?_ He giggles, partly from relief, partly from his own uncertainty, and the sound reverberates around the tiny room.

In a feeble attempt to make himself feel somewhat more human, Edward fills the washbasin – the faucet coughing and spluttering to life as he does so – and splashes his face with the icy water. Gripping the edges of the sink, he chances a glance at his reflection in the mirror above. He looks thoroughly wretched. His hair is a tangled mess of curls, his face is gaunt and sallow, and his eyes are puffy and bloodshot. He has the appearance of a man who hasn’t slept or eaten for days.

“That’s because you haven’t, moron.”

Ed grits his teeth. It’s no shock, of course, to find himself face to face with his leering counterpart once more, but that doesn’t make his presence any less unwelcome.

“I knew you’d come back,” his companion smirks. He looks downright pleased with himself – like a boy who’s just won the school spelling bee, and it gives him the aura of a man who has all the answers. Maybe he does.

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Ed hisses, “when you won’t fucking leave me alone.”

“Sweetheart,” the other Edward purrs, “where would be the fun in that? Anyway,” he glances from left to right and raises his hand to the side of his mouth in a mock-whisper, “I’d have thought you, of all people, would have figured it out by now.”

“That I’m completely insane. Check,” Edward growls. “I really don’t need you to inform me of such matters, but I appreciate your concern.” He runs the faucet once more and takes a sip of the frigid water. It tastes metallic.

His other-self clucks his tongue in disapproval. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. I really am going to have to spell it out for you, aren’t I?”

“If you don’t mind,” Ed spits, acerbically. What else does he have to lose? There’s a man in the next room having his eye seen to who may or may not be Oswald Cobblepot, everyone he’s ever loved is dead, and he’s arguing with himself in the mirror. Again.

“As you wish,” says the other Edward, sighing dramatically. “Buckle up, sunshine. This isn’t likely to be pleasant.”

He leans forward until the two men are practically nose to nose, their shared breath fogging up the surface of the mirror between them.

“Actually,” the mirror image muses, suddenly pulling back to ponderously stroke his chin, “there’s one thing about you that’s really been pissing me off. Well – more than one, but we can talk about what you’ve done to our hair later. What in all holy _fuck,_ was the deal with Isabella?”

Edward glares at his reflection. “You know what she meant to me. What she represented.”

“I mean, you couldn’t have loved her. Not really,” his other-self continues, ignoring him outright. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be cavorting with her killer, am I right?”

“I could have had-”

“Right. A normal life and all that other inane bullshit. But did you honestly believe you were just going to plant your little picket fence with that woman and go to book clubs and wine tastings for the rest of your life? Boring,” he groans, drawing out the syllables and rolling his eyes with such melodrama that he may very well sprain something. “How long do you think you would have lasted until you got that itch? Needed that rush that comes with opening a man up and dancing around his insides? You think you relived all those murders because of guilt? Wrong-o, Eddie boy.”

The figure in the mirror leans in close once more and flashes a wide, ravenous grin, as if he’s about to share the punchline to the world’s filthiest joke. “They gave you a thrill,” he half-whispers. “Each and every one of them.”

“No,” Ed protests, backing away from the sink and stumbling against the toilet. He doesn’t have time for this, not now. Oswald needs him. He should really get back. Get out of this room. Except… “Kristen, Oswald, they were-”

_“Accidents,”_ his mirror-self finishes for him, drawing exaggerated air quotes with his hands. “For being chock full of remorse, you sure seem to jack off to their untimely demises an awful lot. You forget, I see everything, because, well – I’m _you.”_

Edward buries his face in his hands in a vain attempt to hide away from this, the very worst part of himself. The part he’s tried to push down and forget about since he was a boy, when the scathing eyes of the adults in his life would inevitably fall upon him – judging, ridiculing – as if to say: Why the fuck can’t you just be normal? He can hear them all again now, a roiling orgy of mocking and disgust and utter contempt: _You’re wrong; you’re rotten. That’s all you’ll ever be._ Ed cannot discern one voice from another, but the words swell in his ears with such force and ferocity that he’s on his knees and retching into the commode before he can even begin to process it at all.

_Don’t. Please don’t._

“What is that, shame?”

His other-self, no longer bound to the mirror but perched languidly on the edge of the tub, crinkles his nose and examines Edward the way one might view an unruly child pitching a tantrum in a grocery store. “Not a great look for us.”

Edward wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and glares at his counterpart. “Go away,” he glowers, though he knows better than to expect this iteration of himself to actually heed a command.

As expected, his doppelgänger takes a moment to mock-consider Ed’s request before continuing his allocution. “You’re missing the point, Eddie. And like any struggling student, you’re just going to have to stay after class until you get it right. So,” he smacks his hands together and grins, “once more with feeling. You. Need. Me. End of.”

Edward blinks up at his counterpart, waiting for the rest of his condescending spiel to unspool. “That’s it?” he asks incredulously, rising to his feet. “I need you? You have done nothing but interfere with my life for far too long. I’ve nearly lost everything because of you… Why are you laughing?”

The other Ed holds his side with one hand and dabs at his eyes with the other, as though some bit of utmost hilarity has brought him to tears. “Because – my dear, simple Eddie – you are so very stupid. How the fuck do you think you got here? I’ll give you a hint: Because _I_ drove you to it. Your little breakdown back at the motel? The one that sent you to the docks for your heartfelt rendezvous? Courtesy of yours truly. If anything, you should be thanking me.”

Once more Edward sees flashes from the night that tormented him – Tom, Kristen and the rest; their murders played out perfectly, ad nauseam, with one key difference. “Remember that,” Ed murmurs, realisation dawning at last. “That was you.”

_“Us,”_ his doppelgänger corrects. “All of this has been a product of _our_ brilliance. It really is quite something. But, if you still don’t believe me, go and have a chat with ol’ cyclops out there. Now, I really must be leaving. Toodles, Eddie dear.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Edward returns to the bedroom to find Oswald alone at last, sitting up atop the faded bedspread, a cold compress strapped to his eye and his mouth smeared with chocolate. The bright pink box of baked French delicacies rests upon his lap, and there’s a half-eaten and rather sumptuous-looking éclair in his hand.

“Everything okay?” asks Edward. He perches carefully at the foot of the bed, and glumly contemplates his hands. “Is it- Did I-”

“Doctor says it’s going to be fine, once the swelling subsides,” Oswald replies, through a mouthful of cream and pastry. “Although my depth perception may suffer – for a short while, at least.”

Ed swallows hard. He doesn’t feel comforted by this notion in the slightest.

“Come sit with me,” Oswald says, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and patting the empty space beside him. “I think you and I need to talk. Would you care for a pastry? They’re absolutely divine.”

Edward shakes his head, despite his stomach’s ravenous protests to the contrary, and makes his way around the bed to sit by Oswald. They remain there for a moment and contemplate one another in silence. Oswald’s expression is troubled.

“You really don’t remember anything, do you?” he says at last.

“I’m trying,” Ed replies, furrowing his brow, “and there’s bits and pieces here and there, but every time I try to focus on something... it’s sort of like white noise. I can’t seem to remember anything in detail... except shooting you. I remember _that_ all too well.”

Out of the blue, Oswald laughs, and Edward half-expects his face to contort into yet another maniacal monstrosity from deep within his psyche – goading and jeering as Ed darts for the exit – but instead he has a small fit of coughing, and he thumps his chest to steady himself. “Apologies, my friend. I really shouldn’t laugh. It’s just... well, you never shot _me._ You shot _Basil.”_

“Basil Karlo?”

“The very same. Do you perchance remember a gentleman named Dan Murray?”

Edward frowns. The name sounds familiar, as if he’s vaguely reminiscing about a childhood friend. But that’s not right. Dan Murray. Who the fuck is Dan Murray? Dan... he’s... wait. He’s-

“The security guard?” Ed ventures.

Oswald nods fervently. “Yes!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together. “You sent him to cut me loose at the warehouse. Poor fellow didn’t have the slightest idea what he was getting himself into; I suspect you must have paid him well. You gave him an envelope to pass to me containing a key, and this,” he pauses, digging deep into his trouser pocket and producing a folded piece of paper, which he then hands to Edward. “I suspect this may jog your memory.”

Ed purses his lips as he reads, and as he does so, the static fogging his mind begins to disperse somewhat. The sensation is akin to stepping out of a freezing downpour and into the soothing warmth of a chamomile-scented bubble bath.

 

_Oswald. I know this must seem rather strange, but I beg of you to hear me out. We’re playing a game. They’re watching. I need you to return to the mansion; they’ll be waiting for you._

_Let them take you. Play along. Don’t give me up. Whatever you do, don’t give me up, or they’ll kill you. I need them to let me take you._

_I’ve employed the services of a man with whom you’re now deeply familiar, for which I apologise – but they had to believe I wanted to bring you down. I truly am sorry._

_They’ll take you to Sirens, where I’ll be waiting. I may say some hurtful things, and I hereby apologise in advance – but we need to be convincing. Basil is waiting too, in the trunk of my car. Gabe will be waiting for you, just around the corner._

_They need to see me kill you; they’ll be watching._

_Basil has remarkable regenerative properties – to this day I’m unsure if Professor Strange intended for him to yield such a power, but it certainly works in our favour. He’s been paid handsomely and has been coached with exactly how to react. I’ll take him to the docks, and I’ll shoot him._

_I need you to take this key and go to 516 Cooper Avenue, where further instructions will await you._

_Once you’re familiar with the plan and have gathered your forces, I need you to call me so we can meet up – we’ll meet at the docks – and execute the final phase. Don’t speak! I still do not know if they have me wired. Play the song. You know the one. You’ll find a tape of it at the address, amongst other things._

_You’re my best friend Oswald, and I love you too._

_Remember that._

_Ed._

_P.S. If you press the button on the key, you’ll find it’s also a small switchblade. Feel free to use it to shoot the messenger, as it were._

 

“I... I’d moved Tabitha’s M77,” Ed begins, eyes still fixed upon the letter in his hands. “I didn’t move it far... I didn’t want her to suspect foul play. Just far enough to buy us enough time to reach the corner of Partridge and Manx, which is where...”

He pauses, takes a deep breath and swallows. It’s as if there’s a tiny pinhole of memory in his mind, growing ever wider by the second. Soon enough the completed image will emerge and then-

“Gabe took you from my trunk, and drove away,” Edward concludes. “But it barely registered. When I began to drive again all I could focus on was what I had to do. Drive to the docks. Shoot Oswald. Shoot Oswald. Shoot Osw-”

“But you didn’t,” Oswald interjects, gently prising one of Ed’s hands from the scrap of paper and squeezing his fingers. His touch is warm, and Edward meets his gaze at last, shuddering as a tear pools in the corner of Oswald’s visible eye.

“I couldn’t focus on anything else,” says Edward. His voice is hoarse – thick and wet and choked with emotion. It sounds foreign to his own ears. “I’d coached Basil with how to react; it needed to look genuine. I... do not know what he actually said. I know what I _think_ he said... because I’ve replayed it so many times since. It was-”

Edward clears his throat. He’s dimly aware that he’s perspiring – a cooling sensation trickling languidly against the heated skin of his forehead. He wipes his brow with his free hand.

“He’s a trained actor you know,” Ed continues, with somewhat of a strained chuckle. “But I refuse to believe he was _that_ convincing. I think because of the situation, perhaps I heard what I wanted to hear. The things you- The things _he_ said. He couldn’t possibly have-”

He breaks contact with Oswald and covers his face with his hands, fingers pressing deep against his eyelids. The insides effloresce into a murky crimson.

“There was so much blood, Oswald. So much. He sank until that was all I could see. My best friend – the _only_ fucking person to ever see me, and love me for who I am – was gone forever. And it was all my fault.”

“Shush, Ed, it’s okay.” Oswald coaxes Ed’s hands from his face and gently directs Edward to look at him. It’s a steadying sensation, Oswald’s touch. He’s witnessed those hands being used to wreak pain and death dozens of times, rarely to comfort. Oswald makes it seem surprisingly effortless.

“It all went according to plan. _Your_ plan,” he continues, his voice burbling with excitement. “My men are working on the final phase as we speak, and then we can put this unpleasantness behind us at last.”

Edward exhales softly at the notion, comforted by the idea that the hell of the past week will soon disappear like a bad dream receding from the dawn, and he and Oswald can start anew – as friends and, whatever else they may be.

“I need you to do one thing for me though,” Oswald chances, suddenly growing serious. He sounds uncertain, as though he’s rehearsed the request again and again, only to second-guess himself at the last moment. “If you would.”

Ed places a reassuring hand on his companion’s leg. _Anything for you,_ he thinks. “Name it.”

Oswald exhales and picks at one of the remaining pastries, and Edward cannot help but find this sudden bout of jitters endearing.

“Ed,” he begins at last, “would you do me the honour of being my chief of staff once more? Unsurprisingly, you are wholly irreplaceable.” He chuckles nervously before adding, “And you did orchestrate your predecessor’s demise, so the position is yours for the taking. That is, if you-”

“Of course, Oswald. Yes,” Edward grins, and for the first time since this nightmarish ordeal began, he feels at ease. Like he could float if he had a mind to. “I’m honestly taken aback that you still want me, with everything that’s happened.”

Oswald quickly shakes his head and shifts so that he and Edward are face to face. “No, Ed, think nothing of it. You have been brilliant, my friend. After all that you have done for me – retrieving those bribes so I could win the election on my own merits, revealing Butch’s despicable treachery – I know not to question your methods. I trust you, Ed. With my life.”

Oswald looks at him like he’s gazing at a priceless work of art, and after years of being underappreciated at the GCPD – ignored and outright ridiculed by his peers – Edward hardly knows how to respond to such unadulterated admiration.

He grabs the smaller man without really thinking, drawing him into a warm embrace, and lets his eyelids drift shut. A bit of peace, at last. “I am so glad you’re alive,” Ed whispers into his shoulder.

Oswald squeezes tighter.

Tempting as it is to stay up all night to talk, they agree to try and rest. It takes longer than it should for Edward to finally fall asleep – as every factor, every detail of his comprehensive plan comes flooding back as if rendered in glorious Technicolor – though not because his mind is troubled. In fact, quite the opposite. He listens to the soft, peaceful sounds of Oswald’s slumber, feels the warmth of his slight frame nestled against his own. It’s nice and safe, in a way that Isabella never was, and never truly could be. The prick in the mirror wasn’t wrong, Ed knows. Life with Isabella would have caged him, reduced his being to a wholly unsatisfying and colourless existence. But that doesn’t mean he need be alone, either. He belongs here, with Oswald – _to_ Oswald even. It’s a truth Edward has always known, from the moment they met, that deep down, Oswald is the same as he. Damaged and broken. Beaten, but not beat – and in need of someone to understand. Someone who will hold on in spite of the ugly things that would drive most people away – and perhaps even find something beautiful in them.

When he does finally close his eyes, it’s not with the fear that it will all vanish like a mirage in the desert; Oswald will still be here when he wakes. _I am real, and I am not going anywhere._

Edward drifts to sleep with a smile on his lips.

The next morning, after a much-needed shower and assurances from Oswald that he would be perfectly fine while recuperating at the safe house, Edward returns to the Van Dahl estate to placate the city officials and reassure them that the mayor’s rumoured disappearance – no doubt leaked to the press by Barbara – was, in fact, a scheduled vacation and nothing more. They were, of course, initially obstinate, but ultimately swayed by superior wit and clever wordplay. Though he has to battle the urge to roll his eyes and berate them for their stupidity, in the end Ed thanks them for their concern with a tight-lipped smile and sends them on their way. Imbeciles.

But it’s done now, and he can return to Oswald and put his mind at ease. His empire is secure once more, ready and waiting for his triumphant return. Edward ponders dropping by Fabuleux Pâtisserie for more sweets – and perhaps a pastrami sandwich with spicy Dijon from the corner deli – when a string of thickly accented, broken English halts him in the foyer.

Oswald’s maid Olga had always viewed Edward with a disapproving eye, and had endeavoured – in the smallest and most petty of ways – to make his life at the mansion as unwelcoming as possible. Onions in his frittata, tepid tea, a mysterious shortage of towels – it was all circumstantial, of course, and not especially malicious, but enough to demonstrate that Ed was _persona non grata_ as far as she was concerned.

From her dagger-sharp glare, it’s clear that Olga’s impression of him hasn’t thawed much – or at all.

“Mr. Penguin make me leave package,” she grumbles, jabbing a chubby finger towards the stairs, before muttering something in her native tongue and trudging off to attend to her other household chores.

“Charming as ever,” Edward sneers under his breath.

He makes a mental note to speak with Oswald about Olga’s salary, then climbs the stairs and walks the familiar path to Oswald’s bedroom. He pauses before the door, running his fingers across the heavy mahogany, before gently twisting the knob and pushing inside.

Oswald’s palatial bedchamber is just as Ed remembers, overlarge and imposing – perfectly king-like with its antique furnishings and high ceilings, and heavy brocade drapes that filter out all but a modest rectangle of daylight. He switches on a lamp and strides toward the lavishly made bed, upon which sits a sizeable grey box bound with simple black satin ribbon.

Edward hadn’t expected Oswald’s parcel to be a gift – and he’s not entirely certain that’s what it really is, until he opens the small white envelope tucked beneath the ribbon and reads the note inside:

 

_My father once told me that a man can say so much about himself by what he wears, and I do hope that this small gift will speak volumes, my friend. After all, what we are embarking upon will undoubtedly leave quite the mark, and I truly can think of no better occasion to look one’s best._

_All of my love,_

_Oswald._

 

Edward tugs at the ribbon and slides off the lid, a broad grin spreading across his face as the contents of the box are revealed. _Oh, Ozzie, you’ve outdone yourself._ He’s about to pull out his phone to call and tell him just that, when the device begins to vibrate in his pocket.

_Speak of the devil,_ Ed smirks. _What are the odds he’s calling with a grocery list?_

“I’m just about to finish up at the mansion. Is there anything you need?”

The other end of the line explodes with a fit of high-pitched cackling; Oswald sounds positively giddy. “I am about to have everything I could ever need, my friend. We’re on. Meet me at the McCormick Street warehouse in an hour. And do not forget your gift.”

“Os-”

Too excited by this culmination of the grand scheme, he’s gone before Edward can utter a word. _It’s no matter,_ Ed supposes, slipping the phone back into his pocket. There will be time for thanks soon enough.

He spreads the contents of Oswald’s offering on the bed with a measure of reverence normally reserved for religious relics and archaeological finds. It’s an impressive sight – not a single detail overlooked, and Edward cannot help but be awed by Oswald’s penchant for spectacle in the face of adversity.

This should be quite a show indeed.

****

Tight-lipped stoicism has continually been one of Edward Nygma’s defining traits, and occurrences that render him utterly speechless are few and far between. But upon arrival at the antechamber of his chosen establishment, seeing the fruition of his master plan laid out in full – the grandiose vicinity designed to his exact specifications – his jaw drops. A large window covers the majority of the wall before him, revealing his three honoured guests in the adjoining room, bound to chairs and gagged. Behind them stands Gabe, along with an assortment of Oswald’s finest hired goons – all armed to the teeth and bearing an expression of menacing sobriety. Upon a small table to his right, near the entrance to the main chamber, sits a broadcasting microphone and a large, open briefcase containing assorted surgical tools and various other implements of torment, and when Oswald joins him by his side, grinning from ear to ear, his breath is taken away entirely.

Oswald is wearing an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit; the vest is an ostentatious shade of deepest plum, and the suit itself is jet black – bearing delicately embroidered silver pinstripes. Upon his head rests a matching top hat – black with a deep-plum band – and adorning his bruised and bloodshot right eye, he’s sporting an elegant, silver-framed monocle. To complete the ensemble he’s wearing a full-length charcoal coat, made of velvet, with a luxurious fur trim.

“It was my father’s,” Oswald chuckles, gesturing at his eyewear. “I’ll probably need to wear it for a while. But it rather suits me, don’t you think? My father once said-”

“A man can say so much about himself by what he wears,” Edward grins. “I cannot thank you enough for my gift. It’s absolutely perfect.”

Oswald’s opulent gift to Edward had been a bespoke, shamrock green suit made of cashmere – a blend so fine it practically appears iridescent under light – complete with matching bowler hat and a glistening golden cane topped with an intricately crafted question mark.

“I was unavailable, of course. So I had Olga choose the fabric,” says Oswald, in somewhat of an awed tone as he regards Edward in full. “She may struggle with the language but she certainly has a keen eye for fine tailoring. I’d had the cane made for you some time ago – knowing your proclivity for puzzles and theatrics – but the timing never seemed quite appropriate.”

Edward grins, prying his gaze from Oswald long enough to observe their surroundings once more, and finds himself rendered speechless for the second time in as many minutes when he catches their reflection in the large window in front of them. They cut quite the dapper figure in their extravagant evening wear, and Ed is taken aback by just how well the contrasting styles of grandiose attire somehow compliment them both. As a result, he’s suddenly struck with an overwhelming concupiscence for Oswald, fuelled by the notion that this masterful scheme – _his_ scheme – has played out exactly as intended.

He embraces Oswald without a second thought, trapping him against the cool surface of the window, and eagerly presses their lips together as their combined headwear tumbles to the floor.

“Can’t they see us?” Oswald murmurs through the kiss, his hands groping ardently at Ed’s buttocks.

“It’s a two-way mirror,” Ed replies, playfully nipping at Oswald’s lower lip. “Those duplicitous dunces can’t see a damn thing.”

“But Ed,” Oswald breathes into his mouth, “are you sure we have time for this?”

Edwards smirks, giving Oswald’s zipper a tug as he does. “This is my plan,” he growls. With all manner of haste he spins Oswald around, ungracefully yanking his coat to the side and pulling down his trousers. “And I say we have all the time in the world.”

With that, the captive audience in the adjacent room is forgotten – mostly.

While Oswald squeezes his eyes shut – bracing against the window as Ed unceremoniously spits into his palm and pushes himself inside – Edward’s eyes are fixed upon the glass, the pleasure of the occasion and the smug satisfaction of complete and utter victory fuelling every feverish roll of his hips. He’s certain not to last long; he doesn’t even care. This is his fucking moment, at last.

Oswald’s heated breath – exhaled in ragged puffs as with each jarring thrust he’s slammed roughly against the glass – briefly fogs up the two-way mirror, and as the opaque vapour dissipates, Ed catches his own reflection, lips curled into a smirk, simply watching for a beat before nodding once and giving Edward a wink of approval.

Edward grins back as the apparition vanishes – his demon embraced rather than tamed – and he reaches around to tend to his companion’s neglected cock. It takes only a few frenzied strokes before they come together – Ed cackling wildly, one hand wrapped around Oswald’s dick and the other clutching the fur trim of his coat – the small space resonating with the lewd echoes of their tryst.

While Edward was correct in his assessment that their honoured guests could wait for his and Oswald’s arrival, he’s filled with no small amount of relief that the time has finally come to deal with this trio of degenerates once and for all.

After gathering their hats and pants and smoothing their attire, Edward presses the transmit button on the microphone with somewhat of a flourish. The three captives in the adjoining room look around, wide-eyed and startled, as a piercing shriek of feedback fills their immediate vicinity.

“Ms. Kean, Ms. Galavan and Mr. Gilzean,” Edward begins, the intonation of his voice falling with unmitigated menace. “I’m so honoured you could join us for today’s activity, and I do so hope you enjoy it because it’s one of my favourites. It’s a little game I like to call ‘How much blood do I _really_ need?’ ”

Oswald collects the briefcase of various torture implements as Ed lets loose a boyish giggle and hoists his cane aloft with a showman’s flair, unable to keep his glee over the impending carnage in check a single second longer.

“Well then,” Edward grins, draping an arm around Oswald’s shoulders. “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Far-fetched? You betcha. This is Gotham, after all. ;)
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Playlist for this delightful tale can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL1beCcuwVPezkFZcOLVY2U3gRfFsL69wl).
> 
> [This thing was an absolute cunt and a half to plan. Click here for a simplified timeline of events. If you’re into that sort of thing.](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1Zr_8-kRqF9NvKE7dwVQJO3f2r9LeaFiAMjIGWzsNBYI/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> Enjoyed this offering? Please check out our other joint efforts: [The Bird and the Worm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6211234?view_full_work=true), [Where Did You Sleep Last Night?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11199555) and [Reason Is Treason](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8546119)!

**Author's Note:**

> Affiliated shizzle for your perusal:
> 
> ["Ghosts aren't real" by rissalf/riddlelvr](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/158313908433/ghosts-arent-real)
> 
> ["I banished you for good" by rissalf/riddlelvr](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/158815876567/i-banished-you-for-good-his-companion-grins)
> 
> ["Shall we?" by rissalf/riddlelvr](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/159379235348/shall-we-lost-souls-forever-by-okimi79-and)
> 
> [Chapters 1-4 playlist set by SilentSinger/okimi79](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/159652322984/lost-souls-forever-playlist)
> 
> [Chapters 1-4 by baskervilleshund](http://baskervilleshund.tumblr.com/post/164493834530/lost-souls-forever-by-riddlelvr-rissalf)


End file.
